


Scream "I Won't Forget You"

by stormandstarlight



Series: Into the Jaskierverse [11]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Background Character Death, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Necromancy (mentioned), Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormandstarlight/pseuds/stormandstarlight
Summary: This world is different from the others. There's a Jaskier here, of course, because there's always a Jaskier, but there's no Geralt.Geralt's dead.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into the Jaskierverse [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545
Comments: 32
Kudos: 179





	Scream "I Won't Forget You"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Left Behind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24149794) by [stormandstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormandstarlight/pseuds/stormandstarlight). 



> I'm sorry. 
> 
> Feel free to skip if you need.

The portal spits them out in the upper reaches of Kaer Morhen, in a corridor that _should_ be unusable but is instead freshly restored, the rotting floorboards and crumbling stones repaired with the uniformity that indicates magic was used.

“Kaer Morhen,” Ciri whispers, and Geralt nods, relaxing a little. Whichever universe they might be in, Kaer Morhen is bound to be safe from outside threats.

The _Watcher_ , however, is another matter. 

“Anything?” he asks, and Ciri shakes her head. 

“I’ll need some time before I can look for him.”

Geralt nods. “There should be some empty rooms here. Go and get some rest.” She rolls her eyes at him, because Kaer Morhen is as much her home as it is his and she knows nearly everything there is to know about it, but nevertheless, she stumbles off down the hall. He follows her, intending to see her at least to someplace safe before he goes off looking for Jaskier, but as he passes where the corridor branches off a voice drifts down to him.

He stops, and Ciri stops, and he knows she can hear it too because she throws a glance at him over her shoulder that says ‘I’ll be fine, _go_ ’. 

He goes. 

This is the passage that leads to the tower library, he remembers, where the trainers kept the books on magic theory locked up so idiot kids just out of the Trials (Lambert) wouldn’t find them and accidently curse themselves to have a sausage for a nose or something. Back home, it’s crumbling, the wooden floors long fallen to dust and the books moth-eaten, but here, the same sorcery has remade the floors and presumably the library too, if the scent of old paper and glue in the air is anything to go by. 

The door is half-ajar, dim firelight spilling out into the hallway, and there’s a voice coming from inside.

Jaskier’s voice.

Geralt creeps closer, silent on uncreaking wood, and listens. It’s Jaskier, no question, but there’s something… _off_ about him, no bright lilt to his words, no hummed snatches of songs, no call-and-response like he’s having a conversation even with no one else there. Instead, his voice is quiet and slow and tired, listing off book titles in what has to be Jaskier’s version of a monotone, no commentary, no exclamations of delight or disgust or any of the other things that pepper his normal speech.

He slips up to just behind the door, peering around the edge but keeping the rest of his body in uncertain shelter. Something is very wrong here.

“ _De Luntric’s Revivification and Other Such Spells of Its Nature: A Dissertation on the Propensity of Healing Magicks to Claim Revival of the Dead, or; A Guide to Such Spells as Will Heal Injuries Most Grievous Provided the Soul Still Remains_ , by…” he swallows, “Geralt Ranhallaxos of Lan Exeter,” Jaskier says, and pulls a book the width of his own head off the shelves with an _oof_ , but where Geralt would have expected him to follow that up with a quip about pretentious academic titles that call a book three different things or Geralt’s supposed namesake, this Jaskier is silent.

He hefts the book up into his arms and drops it onto the reading table, where a collection of other books reside. Geralt recognizes the black cover of the _Book of Life Unending_ , the necromantic text that Vesemir only keeps around because it tells you how to _stop_ the undead as well as create them, but the rest of them he doesn’t recognize.

 _De Luntric_ goes on the top of the pile, and Jaskier slumps down and stares forlornly at the massive pile of books. “I wonder if Vesemir would just let me burn them all. Save me the trouble of having to hide them from a fucking sorceress.”

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath. These books were supposed to have been destroyed in the attack, and for good reason; an unscrupulous mage getting their hands on _Life Unending_ or any of the other more advanced texts could be catastrophic--

Jaskier’s head comes up, slowly. “Eskel?”

Geralt blinks. Why would he ask for Eskel? Why not Geralt himself?

Jaskie sighs. “Ah. Right then,” and turns back to the shelves. “Come in if you’re coming in, Geralt. No use standing where I can’t see you.” He laughs at that, cold and bitter, and it’s the final straw that makes Geralt step fully into the room despite the _wrongness_ of every last bit of this scene before him.

What the fuck is going on?

“Jaskier,” he says, sliding around the edge of the door and settling in the doorway. Jaskier doesn’t look at him.

“Hello, Geralt.”

“What are you doing?” It’s a stupid question, of course it is, and Jaskier just laughs but doesn’t say anything. “Jaskier. Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” Jaskier asks, finally turning around, although he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

He looks like shit.

He’s in chemise and doublet and overcoat due to the cold, but the overcoat is unwashed and the shirt is crumpled, like he hasn’t bothered to change in days. There are sharp lines underneath his eyes and ink stains on his hands, but the callouses he was so proud of on his fingertips have softened and faded. He looks tired and sad and half-starved and Geralt just wants to pull him closer until the tension in his shoulders and the pain in his face have gone away--

But this isn’t _his_ Jaskier. Whatever happened in this world to make him look like… like _that_ , he can’t get involved. 

“What happened here?”

Jaskier laughs, again, not the bitter huff he’d made earlier but a sound that wrenches its way up out of the bottom of his chest, sounding more like a sob than anything else. “Like you don’t know,” he says, and finally looks up.

Something in his eyes… _breaks_. That’s the only word Geralt has to describe it, the blank expression and steel-backed look to his eyes crumpling, collapsing, so he looks broken and sad and very, very, old. There’s grey in his stubble, Geralt realizes, and in his hair, brushing down over one eye in an untrimmed, unwashed tangle. 

“Oh, _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier chokes out, and takes an aborted step towards him before pulling back, folding his hands demurely together at his waste and wrenching his eyes back down to the floor. “Right. I don’t suppose me telling you to go away is going to make any difference, is it?”

“No.”

“Just what I thought you’d say,” and he chokes on another half-laugh-half-sob. “Right. Fuck. I can’t deal with this. Not… not now.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Geralt begs, because Jaskier is hurting and everything inside him is yelling at him to _make it better_.

Jaskier scoffs, then sighs. “What the hell. After all, isn’t talking about it supposed to help?”

Geralt hums, a yes and not-quite-a-yes and an I-wouldn’t-know. 

Jaskier sobs again. “Gods, I’ve missed-- but of course _you_ already know that.” He turns his back on Geralt, stares blankly at the window shuttered and padded for winter. “What’s going on. I’m pretty sure Yennefer’s portaled in every single necromantic text she could find and I’m scared she’ll end up driving herself mad or summon a demon or actually _succeed_ and I don’t know what would be worse, Eskel hasn’t bothered to leave the keep for a week, not even to go kill something, Ciri’s scared and bored and cooped up in her room and this was a _terrible_ idea to bring her here but it’s not like I had any other choice, and Lambert broke Vesemir’s nose two days ago and it looks like they’re going to fight again sometime soon and I don’t know how to keep everyone together so I guess we’re all just going to die here.” He sighs. “I suppose they meant talking about it with someone else.”

“I am someone else,” Geralt replies, more worried than ever. Lambert’s a little shit, but he’d never _attack Vesemir_. And Yen researching necromancy? What the fuck?

Jaskier glances at him, up and then away again, like looking at Geralt is physically painful. If the scent rolling off of him is any indicator, it _is_. “You have no idea how much I wish that were true.”

Geralt stares at him, half-frantic, because something is _very very wrong here_ , something has nearly destroyed everyone in this keep, it looks like, something has hurt Jaskier more than it ever looked like he could be hurt, not even when he received news of his younger sister’s death in childbed and was silent for a _week_. 

He begins to turn away, going back to his books, and Geralt makes a clumsy grab for his arm, intending to yank Jaskier back down and _make_ him explain what the hell is going on here, but his swipe misses and instead he finds himself cupping Jaskier’s cheek, three-day-old stubble rough against his palm.

Jaskier finally, _finally_ , meets his eyes, and breaks even more, tears welling up against the washed-out blue of his eyes. He leans, just barely, into Geralt’s touch, and Geralt pulls him in closer, not knowing what exactly he intends, only that he needs to find some way to stop this pain…

“Jaskier. What’s wrong? What… what can I do?” Gentle, like he’s trying to soothe a spooked horse, because he _doesn’t fucking know what’s happened_ , why his bard looks like this--

Jaskier’s face goes blank and he shoves at Geralt’s chest, hard enough to actually rock him back a step. “Get out.”

“What…?”

“Get _out_ ,” Jaskier snarls. “Get out of my head, whatever you are, you’re gone, he’s _gone_ , get _out_.” He’s crying now, thin tear tracks streaming down his face, but he pays them no mind.

“Jaskier…”

“ _Get_ **_out_** **!”** he howls, grabbing a random book off a shelf and hurling it at Geralt, who sidesteps it easily and takes a step forward. Jaskier chokes again, half-laughter-half-scream. “Of course. Of fucking _course_ , you can’t just let it go through you, you have to get out of the way, because my mind _won’t fucking let me believe it’s not real--_ ”

“I am real,” Geralt says. Does… does Jaskier think he’s some kind of… magical illusion? Hallucination?

“Yeah, you always say that,” the other man bites out, vicious. “And it’s never true and I’m left behind here all by myself because you went off and fucking--, fucking--” he chokes on the word, and then slumps, defeated. “Get out. Please, just… just leave. I don’t even care that you’re… me, or whatever, just leave me be.” He’s struggling not to cry in earnest now, deep hitching breaths that occasionally fail and come out on a sob, “ Please. Please just leave.”

Geralt leaves. 

There’s a shaky feeling in his limbs and gut, a desperate adrenaline rush like he usually only gets after a particularly close contract. He has to take a moment to lean up against a wall and just breathe, trying to keep the heavy scent of Jaskier’s grief out of his nose.

What _happened_ here?

Footsteps sound on the stairs, fast enough that it’s obviously more than someone idly wandering, and Geralt slips behind an open door into a darkened room, one of the old dormitories. The footsteps clatter up the stairs and resolve themselves into _Eskel’s_ , moving with both purpose and an odd weight, like every step is a struggle. 

They move past his door and into the library. Jaskier doesn’t seem to acknowledge _Eskel_ , either, just thumps a book down onto the table again. 

It’s quiet for a long moment.

“You saw him again, didn’t you.” Eskel says, and it’s not a question.

Jaskier doesn’t reply, but the grief in his scent spikes again, sharp enough to _choke_.

“What happened? I heard you shouting.”

“Told him to go away.” There’s no emotion _whatsoever_ in Jaskier’s voice.

“Jaskier…” Eskel sighs and shifts his weight, walking forwards. “This can’t keep happening. You need to talk to _someone_ , Yen or--”

“Talk to _Yennefer_? She’d probably call me _lucky_. Did you know she’s been portaling in necromantic texts?”

“Vesemir told me. That why you’re up here?”

“Yeah. Trying to… I don’t know, get rid of them before she kills herself. Or _worse_.”

Eskel sighs again, and this time he’s the one to set the book down on the table, gentler than Jaskier. “Come on. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“You’ve seemed perfectly content to leave me by myself in the past,” Jaskier snaps, and then sighs. “I’m sorry. I just…”

“Yeah. I get it. Come on; I think Ciri actually picked up on some of those cooking lessons.”

They leave the library together, locking the door with a _clunk_ , and walk off down the stairs, leaving behind the bitter scent of mingled sorrows. 

_Fuck_.

He needs to find Ciri. _His_ Ciri.

He doesn’t bother trying to track her by scent; the air here is too muddled. Instead, he simply wanders down the corridor, tapping lightly on each door he passes until one of them pops open and Ciri looks out, bleary-eyed. “Wha...? Did you find-- Geralt? What’s wrong?”

He just stares at her, more grateful than he’s ever been to have a familiar face, one that _doesn’t_ stink of mourning. 

“Um… come in?” she asks, and pulls the door open wider. He slips inside, one of the old dormitories rather than a private room, and sits down on one of the unused beds, still lightly covered in dust. 

“Geralt, _what’s wrong?_ ” Ciri asks, shutting and bolting the door and coming over to sit next to him. “Do you want to… talk about it?”

Does he want to talk about it? How is _that_ supposed to fucking help? It’s not going to change the fact that he just watched Jaskier, not _his_ Jaskier but Jaskier all the same, break down in tears at the sight of him and he _doesn’t fucking know what’s wrong_. 

How do you find the words to say something like that?

“ _Geralt_ ,” Ciri says, and he whips around to look at her. “You need to talk to me. Is this something dangerous? Can I help?”

“No.”

“Is there anything I _can_ do?”

“No.” She rests one hand on his shoulder, gentle comfort like he used to struggle to show her, when she was just a child who barely escaped Nilfgaard, and isn’t that funny, that their roles should be reversed like this. She shouldn’t have to-- he should be stronger-- ah _fuck_.

He drops forward abruptly, curling into himself. He can smell her worry and he _hates_ that he can’t find the words to speak to her, that he can’t reassure her the way he _should_ be able to, but he just-- he _can’t_.

Ciri drapes herself over one of his shoulders in a half-hug and somehow or other he finds himself hugging her back. 

* * *

The surge of magic is the first thing that’s pulled Yennefer out of her research all day, big enough and loud enough that she startles upright before casting around for what _caused_ it. It’s some kind of portal, definitely, but the exact nature of it is… odd. Less like the portals she was trained to create in Aretuza and more like the ones Istredd showed her when they were young and _stupid_ enough to think they were clever. Something similar to elven magic, but _stronger_ \--

The residue fades quicker than she’s ever felt before, and, all of a sudden, it’s like nothing ever happened. 

What the _fuck_. 

She slams her book shut without even bothering to hide the title (she’s going to catch an earful from Vesemir later if he finds out what she’s been looking into but she hasn’t had the heart to _care_ ever since that morning on the mountain), slaps it down on the desk, and goes to figure out what the fuck just happened.

Eskel and Jaskier are in the main room; Jaskier looks up as she passes. His eyes are red and he’s shaking slightly; a quick pass over his emotions tells her he’s upset but calming down again, even as Eskel makes a face at Ciri’s latest attempt in the kitchen. It makes his scars look _horrid_. 

Jaskier’s worried about her, too, worried enough to begin to rise to his feet as she strides towards the stairs. “Yen--”, he starts, and she flicks her fingers in his direction with _just_ enough force to snap his jaw shut with a _click_ and force him right back down into his seat. She does _not_ want to hear it, thank you, she’s heard it near-daily from everyone in the keep, even fucking _Lambert,_ and she does _not_ need a lecture on letting go from Geralt’s fucking _bard_.

Eskel turns to look at her and opens his mouth as she passes by the hearth, obviously ready to do something _stupidly_ sweet and nice like offer to make her a cup of tea because he thinks that’s what _Geralt_ would have done, because he always saw the best in his brother and never the absolute _prick_ that Geralt of fucking Rivia could be sometimes, djinn wish notwithstanding--

How dare he. How _dare_ he, to do that to her, to look her in the eyes for _four fucking years_ knowing all the time that he’d _taken away the last thing she had that was her_ **_own_** , and then the sheer fucking _gall_ of the man to fucking-- 

fucking _die_ on her without even apologizing--

Yennefer (she is _not_ Yen, not anymore, not without _him_ there to call her that--) grits her teeth and slams the door to the stairs behind her with more force than is perhaps necessary.

In the main hall, she feels Eskel sigh.

 _Let_ him. She doesn’t want his _pity_.

She can feel _some_ kind of magic coming from a hallway near the top of the keep, something more than the spells she wove into the place to fix the floor and repair the upper library before Vesemir locked her out on the grounds that “Witchers keep their secrets.”

The _audacity_ of that man, to ban _her_ from the books he’ll never even be able to use. She storms up the long spiral staircase, letting the motion soothe her. Just a little. Anger is useful.

The magic hums against her skin and with a jolt she realizes it’s a _xenovox_ , and a powerful one. Strong enough to carry someone’s voice to the other side of the Continent. Is this… are they being _invaded_? Attacked? Should she call the others-- not yet. She’ll call them if she really needs a brute with a sword.

She comes out into the hallway where the magic hums. There’s faint portal residue here, like wind and sound and… _jade_?

This is _Ciri’s_ magic.

What would Ciri be doing with portals, she’s supposed to be in the woods with Vesemir learning tracking… has she accidentally made a portal as part of a conduit event, the same way Yen did?

Does she really hate Kaer Morhen that much?

But no, she’s not shown any signs of wanting to leave badly enough to generate a portal, and anyways, this portal feels… different. Yennefer steps around the place where it opened, searching for the trace that leads back to its origin, but the long tail of magic just… disappears, burrowing into nothing like this _thing_ using Ciri’s magic stepped _between_ space rather than through it. 

She glances down the long hall, but the door to the Upper Library is still securely locked. With _dimeritium_ , no less (damn that old Witcher), and it doesn’t look like anyone’s been in there for a while. No, the only door that _isn’t_ locked is in the other direction, one of the old dorm rooms that have been lying unused for decades

She strides down towards it and yanks it open with Chaos already cracking at her fingertips, read to bind and crush whoever might think it was a good idea to attack her home and her almost- _daughter--_

The Chaos crackles and fizzles along her fingertips as her control slips enough to let it burn her, the door swinging wide open with a resounding screech of rusty hinges, as Geralt of Rivia looks up at her.

* * *

It’s _Yen_ at the door, the first time they’ve seen Yen out of nearly a dozen universes, and she looks old as well, older than a sorceress should. It’s not just the weight in her eyes or the way she moves, no, it’s something _more_. She looks nearly as tired as Jaskier did, but all of that is superseded by the shock in her eyes, the way the lightning snapping along her fingertips is beginning to jump out of control.

For a long moment, none of them move, and then Yen yanks one hand up with a whip of lightning following, Ciri lunges to her feet and shouts a shield into being, the lighting sparking off of jade magic and fizzling out into nothing, and Geralt tries and fails to make his muscles pull him to his feet, draw his swords, protect his daughter or calm down the sorceress or do _something_ , but instead he just. Sits.

“Yen. _Yenna!”_ Ciri pleads, the old nickname from when she was young, and Yennefer slowly lets her Chaos die away, although she never stops looking at Geralt. Ciri lifts her hands, conspicuously free of Chaos. “I know this might sound weird, but it’s _me_ , Yen--”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, and Chaos crackles again. “Not with whatever the fuck _that_ is here.”

“Hey,” Geralt retorts, mildly, and Yen _flinches_.

“Ciri. What have you _done_?”

“...nothing?”

Yen snarls, the expression odd on her face, usually so calm and composed. “Then what is _that_ doing here?”

“What is…” Ciri breathes, deeply, and carefully lowers her hands, sitting back down next to Geralt and wrapping an arm back around his shoulder, silent comfort. “Ye- _Yennefer_. This isn’t our world. We’re not from this universe. Whatever it is that Geralt did here, it didn’t happen in our world. He’s not the man you know.”

 _Yennefer_ slowly lets her own Chaos spill away and sags against the doorframe, _still_ not taking her eyes off Geralt. “Another universe?”

Geralt nods beside her, meeting her too-bright violet eyes. “Yen. This world. What happened?”

Her face is a blank mask, as controlled as she always is, only her eyes and scent giving away the storm of pain and anger and _grief_ underneath her skin. “You died.”

Ciri’s arm tightens around his shoulders as she gasps.

Oh. 

That explains everyone’s reactions, at least, but he’s still too numb to drag up anything more than that, to react with more than a heavy nod and _finally_ hauling himself to his feet. He takes a step towards Yennefer, who snarls, Chaos spilling over and around her fingertips, violet and white. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“We’re looking for Jaskier,” Ciri supplies.

“Well, if the scene in the main hall is anything to go by, you found him, and I think it might be better for all involved if you left him alone from now on.”

“Not your Jaskier. Ours got… lost.” Geralt supplies, turning over his earlier encounter with Jaskier in his mind. Jaskier hadn’t reacted like he’d seen a dead man. 

“Lost.”

“There was a portal, and it collapsed,” Ciri explains. “He was flung… _somewhere_ , but we don’t know exactly. We’ve been trying to find him.”

“By hopping to as many universes as you can reach.”

“Yes,” Geralt says. _Why_ had Jaskier reacted like that? He acted more like he was mad at Geralt than anything else.

“Of course. And you just _had_ to come to ours.”

“We don’t know where he _is_ ,” Ciri pleads. “He’s not in this world or any of the other ones we’ve been to, and there’s something _after_ us--”

 _My mind won’t fucking let me believe it’s not real_ , Jaskier says in Geralt’s memory, sad and angry and so, so bitter, and he sways on his feet, struck by the reality of whatever this universe is. Geralt, dead. Yennefer, Eskel and presumably Lambert and Vesemir left behind. _Jaskier_ left behind.

Jaskier left behind and seeing Geralt even when he's not there.

Abruptly, he just wants to go _home_ , back to his own universe and his own Kaer Morhen and his own Jaskier, wants to pull _his_ bard close enough to feel his heartbeat and forget the sadness wrapped through every stone of this castle.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and _means_ it to the bone.

Yennefer scoffs. “Go.”

“What?”

“Leave this universe.”

“I… I can’t,” Ciri says. “I used up all my Chaos getting here, I need to rest.”

“How long?”

“Two days?”

Yennefer scoffs again, and flicks her fingers, the crackling Chaos winking out with a _pop_. “Take mine.”

“What?” Geralt asks, and Yennefer shudders, face twisting into a scowl.

“My Chaos. Take it and _get out of here_.”

“That’ll hurt you,” Geralt says, because he won’t see another person hurt because of him, not in this world.

“Since when are you permitted to tell me what to do?” she snaps, and turns straight to Ciri. “Can you do it?”

Ciri nods, slow and solemn. “Yes.”

“Then take my hand,” Yennefer commands, as imperious and beautiful as ever she is, and pulls her Chaos back to the surface, crackling around her in a web of ozone and violet-hued magic while Ciri’s own wind-and-jade seeps over her skin, thin and fragile from the strain of being used so heavily so often. Ciri swallows and opens the portal with a slow hand gesture, violet magic swirling in the air until it opens onto another portal, sweat beading on both their faces before Ciri slowly draws back, leaving Yennefer to support the spell alone.

“Go,” she snaps, not looking at either of them, and Ciri steps through the portal as quickly as possible. Geralt lingers, trying to catch this Yennefer’s eye.

“Yen--”

“Go!”

He goes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so remember the past few people who mentioned angst showing up in ItJ? Yeah, that was me they were talking about :)
> 
> For those of you who skipped but still want to know the plot, here we go: Geralt and Ciri come out of the portal into the upper levels of Kaer Morhen; while Ciri goes to get some rest, Geralt wanders around and finds this world's Jaskier in a library full of magical text. Jaskier sees Geralt and thinks he's hallucinating, because Geralt in this world is dead. Jaskier breaks down, Geralt leaves, and Eskel comes upstairs to comfort him.  
> Yennefer then arrives to investigate the strange portal that appeared in the upper levels of Kaer Morhen, encounters Geralt and Ciri, and gives them the energy to leave their universe because it's better if they leave as soon as possible.
> 
> As always, kudos will be given a warm and loving home, and feel free to scream at me in the comments :)


End file.
